


After All

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Someone once said that the twins run cold— that their hands are always frozen when someone reaches over to grab them. But to Atsumu, Osamu isn’t cold at all. If anything, his hands are pleasantly warm— a testament to the strangeness that is whatever transpires between them.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 308
Collections: Anonymous





	After All

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for someone. never thought i'd post this but it's rotting away without people seeing so why not.

In Atsumu’s defence, he has every right to snap when he does. The grind of preparing for exams is never fun, and though Atsumu likes to think he’s adept at handling stress, daily volleyball practice _and_ studying leaves little time for anything but sleep. He’s unravelled at the seams for too long not to feel this way, and by then, anything could have pushed him over the edge. When practice rolls around, it just happens to be first years on the B-team that set him off. 

It’s past sundown, and practice is nearing its end, the scent of rubber, sweat, and salonpas thick in the air. While the starters finish off the night with a small game of three-on-three, a gaggle of first years make off to chat up some girls that have come to watch. They’re noisy and boisterous and miles too cocky for Atsumu to focus. It may be hypocritical for him to say, but at least _he_ has talent— the talent to aim his next serve directly at the back of their heads. His patience has worn thin, and the merits of aiming just a _touch_ to the right are beginning to outweigh any possible repercussions when— 

_Smack._

The spilt second spent with his attention elsewhere leaves him open to receive a ball with his face. Immediately, he stumbles backwards, hand rushing up to grip the side of his nose where it collided. Though it stings, his hand comes away without blood, and his anger shifts to a different suspect as he looks up to see Suna snickering behind his hand. 

“What the hell was that for?” Atsumu shouts, tossing the ball only to serve it haphazardly in his direction. 

Suna dodges it— barely, and ducks behind Kita. “I thought you’d receive— guess you’re just off your game,” he taunts. 

Atsumu’s brow twitches. Long gone are any thoughts of the B-team, exams, or practice, frustration broiling to the surface as he sneers, a second away from ducking under the net when a hand clasps his shoulder.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Osamu says, eyes appraising in that way they always are. Atsumu tries not to falter, mouth hanging open just slightly. “C’mon, everyone else has started cleanin’ up.”

He squeezes Atsumu’s shoulder once more before wandering off, taking the volleyball that had hit his face to its final resting place— the gym closet. Another few moments pass before Atsumu can shake off his stupor, frustration simmering off to a strange, aching kind of wanting that doesn’t sit well among sore muscles. He goes through the motions of cleaning up best he can, apples of his cheeks flushed because he’s not one to get a ball to the face, and yet that’s not even what he’s blushing about. 

The walk home from practice is humid, summer air thick with moisture and the odd chatter of crickets in the grass. The silence between him and Osamu, too, is loud, burning his ears as their shoulders bump. The suburbs are quiet at this time of night, and it seems they are the only two awake, moon the only witness to Osamu brushing his knuckles against Atsumu’s. He’s quick to tangle their hands together, fingers interlocking in practiced, private motions. Whatever tension Atsumu harbouring begins to fade, and he lets out a gentle huff of air in relief. 

Someone once said that the twins run cold— that their hands are always frozen when someone reaches over to grab them. But to Atsumu, Osamu isn’t cold at all. If anything, his hands are pleasantly warm— a testament to the strangeness that is whatever transpires between them. 

—

It goes like this: Osamu, hands stained purple from toner to keep his ashen hair grey instead of the brassy tone Atsumu prefers. Atsumu, staring at him through the mirror’s refection, meeting his eyes with no intention of being anything but teasing, caught in a moment of _oh, that’s it_ as Osamu turns his head to face him properly and raises a brow. His heart palpitates in his chest watching Osamu wrinkle his nose, holding back laughter. 

His hair is soaked, plastered to his forehead and rinsed from suds that cost a fortune in the name of vanity. Atsumu thinks it’s worth it, to see Osamu with water running down the bridge of his nose, dripping onto his white shirt. All sharp edges, jawline and cheekbones casting strange shadows from the unflattering bathroom light. Still, only one word comes to mind at the sight of Osamu running the back of his purple hand over his eyes, flicking water onto the sink. 

_Pretty._

It’s always at odd moments that he notices how intense this admiration has grown. It catches him off guard in the shared midnight hours spent staring at the ceiling in shared silence, in the split second where they hang suspended mid air during a quick set, in any instance where the world shrinks to just the two of them. There, Atsumu comes to realize just how much he longs for the closeness that’s hard to find, for the elimination of all reality except each other. 

Atsumu isn’t sure when it started, and isn’t sure when it’ll all end. All he knows for certain is the look in Osamu’s eyes is undeniably the same as his own, and that when he needs him, he’ll be waiting on the other side.

—

Sunday mornings start slow, with the ebb of sunlight that burns eyes not yet used to the light. Atsumu lays with his head pressed against his pillow, coming to his senses as sleep leaves him in careful intervals. First, the light. Second, the soreness of muscles from practice the night before. Third, the sounds drifting in from a bedroom door left slightly ajar— the _clink_ of dishes leaving the cabinets, the fizzle of a burner being clicked on. Their parents always use Sunday mornings to run errands, leaving only one person left to be rustling in the kitchen by this time. 

Atsumu sits up and stretches his arms high above his head, reaching to grab a shirt from somewhere on his floor. He isn’t messy, per-se, but Sunday’s are cleaning days too— he’ll tidy up after he’s eaten and figured out what Osamu is doing waking him up on the one day he can sleep in.

He follows the hall towards the stairs, fingertips dragging along the wall sluggishly. He wonders why Osamu didn’t sleep in like he’s known to do, like Atsumu _wanted_ to do. He finds no annoyance, instead, only fondness, and chalks it up to a good dream he can’t seem to remember. There, Osamu waits for him, not dressed but busy cracking eggs into the pan, tossing the shells into the trash by his feet. He sends Atsumu a sidelong glance, 

“Did ya sleep well?” Osamu asks over his hissing of eggs. They spitter quietly as atsumu shrugs, 

“Coulda slept longer, but so could you. Why the hell are up at—” he pauses, leaning closer to read the time on the stove, “half past nine?”

Osamu reaches across him to grab chopsticks, arm pressing against his abdomen to avoid the stove. “Thought you’d want to eat some decent breakfast for once. It’s been a long week.” He looks to face Atsumu, smirking at the expression of genuine surprise that greets him. “Don’t expect much. It’s just egg on rice.”

The rice cooker beeps, as if to chime in dumbly that _yes, Osamu is cooking for you!_ Atsumu blinks again, perhaps caught in a dream, and stares unabashedly at Osamu as he reaches to grab bowls from the cupboards. His t-shirt rides up, just a little. It exposes pyjamas riding low on sculpted hips and a fading bruise from walking into the net a few days prior. He flicks his eyes back up to bedhead once the shirt falls back down, to the cowlick at the back of his head sticking straight up. _Cute,_ his sleep drunken mind supplies.

Osamu slides one egg out of the pan and onto a bowl of rice— his own, yolk still runny. It’ll take another few moments before Atsumu’s is ready, as they both know. Once, when they were in middle school, Osamu nearly threw a pan at him when he refused to eat the egg undercooked. Sometimes, those days of childish foolery don’t seem far away at all. 

“Why are you so quiet?” Osamu asks, poking the egg in the pan. “You’re staring.”

Heat rises to atsumu’s ears. “B-because I’m _tired,_ dingus,” he stammers, falling over his words. “And hungry,” he tacks onto yhe end. 

Osamu raises a brow. “Really? ‘Cause I could _swear_ you were ogglin’ me, not the food.”

Atsumu sputters, balking at his brother’s boldness. Unfazed, Osamu hums and scoops the final egg out of the pan and onto the bowl of rice. “You— I— _‘Samu!”_

He’s sure his blush is unmistakable now, painting his cheeks and ears pink. Osamu just smirks, a self satisfied, amused and incredibly _fond_ smile that only serves to make Atsumu fluster further. He scoops up egg and rice and turns, holding it out for Atsumu with a glint of mischief in his eye. Atsumu takes it without thinking, closing his agape mouth over the food as Osamu pulls the chopsticks away, still smiling. 

It isn’t as if the food is great— it is perhaps the simplest thing Osamu could’ve made— but the reality of being fed sparks a small fire in Atsumu’s chest. They’re close now, incredibly so, with this noses almost touching and nothing but a few inches between them. Osamu smells like linen and soap, and his eyelashes are long, shielding his half lidded eyes from the sunlight beaming through open windows. 

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles, reaching forwards to brush his thumb to the corner of Atsumu’s mouth, wiping away a grain of rice. Atsumu swallows, and chokes on whatever words he was supposed to say. 

—

Intimacy creeps up on him in moments that would otherwise go unnoticed, made unable to ignore by Osamu’s commanding presence. Laundry days become the strangest kind of haven, one that smells like dryer sheets and is warmer than any summer day. They lay out the clean clothes on Atsumu’s bed, and sit cross legged at either end, yanking clothes from the pile to fold and sort. Like always, it becomes a question of whose clothes are whose, a fight that Atsumu has always seemed to win. What sweaters he wants are his for the taking, and though he could try to be covert about nabbing Osamu’s clothes, they’re much better smelling fresh out of the dryer. 

One sweater in particular stands out among the mound of athletic wear— a soft periwinkle faded from years worn. Osamu had gotten his name embroidered on the back when it was bought, but even that couldn’t be a deterrent when the inside lined in soft fleece. Without a second thought, Atsumu snatches it from the pile, throwing it over his head. Instantly, he’s engulfed in warmth and softness, heat radiating from the garment fresh out of the dryer. He pushes the hood back and shoots Osamu a smug look, resuming the task of sorting through his clothes. Osamu chuckles, shaking his head. 

“What?” Atsumu asks, snuggling closer in the sweater. It fits like a glove and smells faintly of the cologne his brother has become fond of. 

Osamu shrugs. “It’s nothin’. You just look cute, wearing my hoodie and all.” 

Atsumu instantly melts, embarrassment heavier than the flush that made Osamu snicker in the first place. 

_He’s the fuckin’ death of me,_ Atsumu thinks, not without heart aching fondness. Osamu never looks away. 

—

It starts to drive Atsumu a little wild. 

In a good way, of course. Everytime their hands touch when passing a volleyball, Osamu lingers, giving Atsumu a respite from the intensity he so craves, leaving him a blushing mess. It’s walking home hand in hand, Osamu taking his without question or comment as the sun sets in heavy hues of red and orange. It’s a foot brushing his from under the kitchen table as they eat, unbeknownst to anyone but them. This, whatever it is, is theirs, and theirs alone.

Its strange, because where Atsumu has worn his heart on his sleeve, Osamu holds his close to the chest. They both know how to play their emotions like cards, and have long since been able to read each other. Still, there’s something to be said for the way Osamu turns guessing what he’s thinking into a game, one that Atsumu longs to win once and for all. 

It comes to a precipice one night as they stand, shoulder to shoulder, brushing their teeth and staring at each other through the mirror. Atsumu ducks down to spit in the sink, rinsing the taste of mint from his mouth only to jump, head whacking agsinst the faucet as Osamu runs his hand through his hair. 

“When was the last time you shaved the back of your head?” he asks, combing his fingers through the undercut. The fact that he can _comb_ his fingers through something that’s usually buzzed short is an answer in of itself, but Atsumu’s brain has short circuited, unable to move or answer until the hand playing with his hair pulls back. He straightens, clears his throat, and pretends that the tingling sensation on his scalp doesn’t rouse the butterflies in his stomach. Osamu looks at him expectantly, lips red and wet from water, his own undercut nicely shaven. If Atsumu were to run his hands over it, he’s sure he’d be rewarded with the familiar sensation of soft fuzz. 

“I should probably get on that, huh?” Atsumu muses, looking away from him. He can still feel his eyes on the back of his head as he rifles through the drawer for the clippers. They aren't where he usually leaves them, on the top drawer to the left. 

“Lookin’ for these?” Osamu asks. A faint buzzing starts behind him, and Atsumu turns to see him holding the clippers. He takes a step forwards, maneuvering so that he stands behind Atsumu, free hand combing through the long hair at the back of his head. “Let me.”

Atsumu’s breath hitches, becoming caught in his throat as Osamu tilts his head down, bringing the clippers to the base of his skull. The whine of the vibrations fills the room, filling the air that is otherwise thick with tension. Osamu’s body radiates heat that seeps into Atsumu’s bones, warming him as his hair falls away in tufts at their feet. Osamu’s breath tickles the back of his neck, sending shudders down his spine. He brushes away the strands of hair still clinging to his skin after being cut away, and goosebumps rise on Atsumu’s skin. He’s sure Osamu has noticed.

Tufts of dark hair drift to the ground to lay by their feet, the floor growing messier with each passing second. Atsumu focuses on it to keep himself from giving away just how much of his cool demeanor has slipped away. Osamu touches him in ways too gentle for a simple haircut, fingertips caressing the shell of his red tipped ears. He can’t see the flush on Atsumu’s face, but he can hear the hitch in his breathing, the unsteady way his heart pounds in his chest. He can picture Osamu behind him, taking it all in with a smile. 

Cool lips come to press against the nape of his neck, lingering on hot skin as Atsumu holds his breath. Osamu pulls away, his exhale tickling his scalp.

“Finished,” he says, quieter than necessary, sung like a song. Atsumu looks up and meets his twin’s eyes in the mirrors, pupils blown wide, and wonders how to clean up the mess he’s made. 

—

“You fuckin’ did your order of operations wrong,” Atsumu snarks, while reading over Osamu’s math homework. “How else woulda we gotten different answers?”

Osamu scoots to his side, across the hardwood floor in their shared bedroom to snatch the paper from his brother’s hand. Their knees touch as he shifts, laying the page next to his own before circling a random line of algebra.

“No, _you_ did,” Osamu responds, knowing well enough not to take the bait. Atsumu would’ve smiled, if not for the frustration growing inside of him at unfinished math homework. He bites his lip as Osamu leans further into Atsumu’s space, bending down as he begins to rewrite the occasion. “See?”

Atsumu blinks. _Fuck, he’s right,_ he thinks. Osamu looks up, and their noses brush, the space between them having vanished in the hours spent slaving to second year math. His heart clamps down in his chest, a wave of relief washing over him now that the final problem has been solved, now that there's no reason to separate the two of them. With no regard for the wellbeing of his school supplies, Atsumu slides them underneath their shared desk, crumpling pages and sending pencils rolling to opposite corners of the room. Osamu sighs, somewhat exasperated, and looks towards Atsumu with a level glare. 

“What?” Atsumu counters, smirking slightly. He knows Osamu is long past yelling at him for his lazy tendencies, much less beating him up, so when he surges forwards, Atsumu hardly flinches. What he wasn’t expecting was for Osamu to cup his chin and capture his lips, crawling forwards into his lap. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. Atsumu instantly melts into the hold of his brother, parting his lips to let Osamu’s tongue slide along the tops of his teeth. It feels suspiciously like being put in his place, only with the gentle hand of someone who knows him as well as himself. And that’s what they are, mirror images, a reflection of each other, the inverse to each. Atsumu has learned when to push with his hand on Osamu’s chest, when to bite and to jest, but knows just as well how to turn to butter beneath him, hands sliding up Osamu’s toned biceps, eyes fluttering shut. 

They kiss until Atsumu starts to nod off, forehead sinking into Osamu’s shoulder. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but wakes up in his own bed, Osamu lying in his own, snoring softly. 

—

It’s hard not to think about that night as the week meanders on. Atsumu finds himself chewing on the end of his pencil absentmindedly, tasting wood and rubber instead of Osamu’s mouth, and being too preoccupied to do anything about it. Practice is a brief respite, but even then he’s forced to watch Osamu out of the corner of his eye, practicing diving receives and stretching his body to the fullest. Atsumu forces himself to do fifteen minutes of serve practice before heading out, as some kind of punishment for even looking. Osamu is already showered and ready to leave when he’s done, forcing Atsumu to simply leave his shower to the comforts of his own home. 

( _Their_ home). 

Halfway through scrubbing off the sweat and grime from his hair, Atsumu hears the bathroom door open with a _click._ “Relax,” Osamu drawls as it closes behind him. “It’s just me.”

Atsumu huffs, returning to his next task with renewed vigour as Osamu goes through his nightly routine— face washing, moisturizing, brushing his teeth. By the time Atsumu finished and shuts off the shower head, he can hear Osamu spit into the sink, rinsing his mouth from the remnants of minty paste. A lifetime of togetherness and years of highschool change rooms leaves Atsumu unashamed of his body, naked and dripping onto the bathroom tile. He meets Osamu’s eyes in the foggy windows, fighting off a full body blush as he looks him up and down. Chest fluttering, Atsumu ties a towel around his waist, hip checking Osamu to make room for himself by the sink. 

Before Atsumu can start to brush his teeth, Osamu wraps his arms around his waist, chin settling onto the crook of his neck. Atsumu’s surprise only lasts half a second before he leans back into Osamu’s arms, pressing flush up against him as he sighs, warm breath tickling his neck. Osamu begins to leave warm, open mouthed kisses on his shoulder, teeth _just_ brushing his skin. Atsumu hums, rolling his head to the side, smiling dumbly as he’s held so tight. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Atsumu mumbles, breath hitches as Osamu swipes his tongue over his pulse point. 

“Hmm… you wouldn’t like it if I said,” Osamu murmurs into his nape. 

Atsumu tries to turn in his grip, but Osamu has always been the stronger one, holding him in place. “What’s— what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, blush beginning to creep from his cheeks to his ears. 

“Well… I like seeing you all flustered like this,” Osamu says in between kisses, nuzzling his nose into his skin. “That's the selfish bit. But not all.” 

Atsumu, for once in his life, stays quiet, heart fluttering as Osamu’s kisses a path up towards his ear. His breath shakes ever so slightly, and Osamu hums once more. 

“I just wanted you to be relaxed.. you work so hard, y’know? I thought you deserved somethin’ nice for once,” he tells him, squeezing Atsumu’s waist a little tighter. He tilts his chin, nose brushing the shell of Atsumu’s ear. “Did it work?”

The whisper traces down Atsumu’s spine, a small shudder following. “Oh,” he says, mostly to himself, enjoying how Osamu’s chuckle shakes him. He blushes, turning his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I— well, you don’t have to stop.”

Either Osamu doesn’t notice his stammer, or simply doesn’t comment. Slowly, his kisses creep higher, passing along Atsumu’s jaw, until he’s turned around in Osamu’s arms, face to face. Osamu combs his hands through Atsumu’s hair, pushing the damp strands away from his forehead. Leaning closer, their mouths meet, the kiss gentle and soft, with a hint of wintergreen on Osamu’s tongue. Rests his hands around Osamu’s shoulders, Atsumu lets himself be ravished, eyes closed and chest floating with an emotion he hadn't remembered feeling in a long while. 

Peace. 

—

They walk to practice together come morning, steps in line, shoulders brushing as the sun begins to rise. As orange overtakes blue, Atsumu brushes the back of his hand against Osamu’s, the warmth so much more than that in the sky. Before he can move away, Osamu grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly, and bringing them closer together. 

_Yeah,_ Atsumu thinks, smiling with smugness silver lined with the fond. He looks over to Osamu, and watches his brown eyes glow. _Maybe you were right after all._

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
